


you raised me like a bruise

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers (Comic)
Genre: Anti-Hero, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: ante_up_losers, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Female Character of Color, Gen, Gift Fic, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max may be dead, but Aisha has a long list of enemies who aren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you raised me like a bruise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tielan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/gifts).



> Aisha's characterization is a mix of comics and movie canons, but her background, history and cultural perspective comes primarily from the comics. This fic does not contain any plot spoilers for the comics but does feature a few characters.
> 
> Title from a line in Tom McRae's song "For the Restless." Thanks to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) for the fantastic beta.

Aisha perches on the table next to Clay, setting her feet on the bench and resting her arms on her thighs. She follows his line of sight to Jolene, Pooch, Jensen and Cougar seated around a tree stump, laughing. Even Clay has a ghost of a smile on his lips. Aisha lowers her eyes and takes a breath, finding her own smile before lifting her eyes back to the card game.

Jolene bounces Jamaar on her knee, a steady rhythm that doesn't pause when she tosses her card onto the pile with a smirk.

"Damn," Jensen says, shaking his head as Pooch takes the cards. "We're switching partners after this hand, Pooch."

Pooch snorts and blows Jolene a kiss that she doesn't notice because she's busy keeping her cards out of Jamaar's grasp. There's something here that's almost settling. It started with Max, hands held high, a gloved thumb on the trigger, and Aisha taking the rifle, Clay shouting, "No!" while her heart beat, _yes_ , _now_ , _fuck you_ , _die_.

She doesn't live in a world with happy endings, though, and she'll wish that she'd remembered that just as the building next to them lurches sideways, the walls bloating out and then bursting in a riot of fire and smoke.

~*~

 _"That was your warning, Clay. Things can go so much worse for you and your team."_

~*~

"Who was that?" Jensen asks. "Who the _fuck was that_?"

Pooch has his head in his hands, Cougar standing behind him, hat tipped low to cast a shadow over half his face, and Clay is standing in the middle of the waiting room, staring at nothing. It was supposed to be over. Aisha knows 'over' never lasts.

"Jensen," Clay says after a moment, after they're tense from the silence and too taut to move.

"Right." Jensen tears his fingers through his hair and straightens. "Right. I need a—" He looks around and realizes where he is, his expression crumpling, eyes going soft and wide behind his glasses. "I'll, uh."

Clay nods and walks over to them, but he reaches for Pooch, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. Pooch hasn't looked up since they arrived at the hospital and doesn't move now. "She'll be fine."

Pooch slaps away Clay's hand. His eyes are angry and red, his cheeks wet with the tears that he's been silently shedding the whole time.

"Jesus, Pooch," Jensen murmurs, but he has the same stricken expression on his face. He slings an arm around Pooch that's as well received as Clay's squeeze. It's brushed off with the same narrow shrug.

"My wife," Pooch finally says. More tears track down his face, followed by a choked, broken, "Jolene."

The team moves — Jensen, Cougar, Clay — all gathering closer to Pooch, silently offering their condolences, bowing their heads. Maybe they're praying. Cougar murmurs something to Pooch, too quiet for Aisha to hear, and makes the sign of the cross. Aisha remains where she is, unnoticed in the chair, her arms loosely wrapped around herself.

The doctor comes out, asks for Mr. Porteous, and it sounds ominous. Aisha hears Jamaar's name because she's listening for it, and the news—

"Oh, thank god!" Jensen says.

—is good.

She watches Pooch burst into fresh tears before burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. The entire team looks relieved. Then Jensen asks about Jolene.

"I don't know," the doctor says, "but I'll try to find out."

Aisha disappears. There's nothing she can do here.

~*~

Aisha slips into Jolene's hospital room when the halls are quiet and the staff is sparse. Pooch lifts his head, his gaze suddenly focusing on her, trying to pin her in place as she silently shuts the door. He blinks, and Aisha steps forward into the dull circle of light, hands raised.

"How is she doing?" she asks, gesturing her right hand toward the bed.

Pooch blinks again, hands squeezing around Jolene's, and starts folding in, crumpling. His exhale is shaky, wavering like the ripple of tears brimming in his eyes when he turns his head to look at her. "Stable." He clears his throat, lifts Jolene's hand to his cheek and rubs skin against skin while the monitors continue to beep, steady and constant. "The doctor said ... . " But he doesn't finish.

Aisha knows how to fill in the blanks, how to find the answers in silence. She steps closer to the bed and stares down at Jolene's wan face. Her cheeks are scratched and her hair is matted, her lips chapped and the skin under her eyes dark and bruised. Aisha takes note of it, holds each observation like a bullet and chambers it. Jolene doesn't move when Aisha strokes her knuckles. As Aisha brushes each groove and bump, she tells Jolene, _I'll bring you his ear as a souvenir_. It's been a long time since she's taken a collection.

She spares Pooch a glance, a silent condolence of her own, and then she leaves with a Beretta tucked behind her jeans, hidden beneath her blazer, and the same promise that she entered with: take him down — whoever he is. Make him pay.

~*~

"Jesus Christ," Marvin gasps, but he shakes it off with a quick shake of his head. He peers down the hall, confirms the all clear with a nod, and then shuts the door, pinning Aisha with a cold look. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Calling in that favor." Aisha jams her knife into his drawer, jimmies and breaks the lock. She doesn't have time for finesse. "You owe me."

Marvin is vibrating with anger, his jaw tightening as he stalks across the room, hissing in a whisper as he reaches across the desk and slams the drawer shut. "I don't owe you sh—"

Aisha grabs his tie, cinches it tight as she jerks him down and tucks the knife under his chin, right above his Adam's apple. It bobs against the blade. "You owe me," she repeats, the words soft as she stares into Marvin's eyes.

He's not scared; he's pissed, but her point is made. She pulls the knife back, lets him go, and opens the drawer again.

He loosens his tie and slides it off, tossing it down on the desk as he rubs his neck. "What're you looking for?"

"A man. An enemy."

"You've got a long list. Care to narrow that down a bit?"

Aisha smiles as she grazes her fingertips across Marvin's neat, ordered files. "There was a terrorist attack." She pulls the file she needs and opens it on the desk. "In a park in Massachusetts."

Marvin's mouth thins. "He's not in here."

Aisha leans back in the chair and watches Marvin. "But you know who he is." The chair pops back when she moves forward, snatching the paper she needs out from under Marvin's hand. "Give me a name." She neatly folds the sheet of paper and pockets it while he snatches the rest of the file and tucks it under his arm.

"What're you gonna do? What's this about?"

Aisha shrugs. "What it's always about. Name."

"Bryan." Aisha waits. Marvin sighs, shoulders sagging as he rubs his forehead. "Bryan Esterman, but you're not gonna get anywhere with him. Let us handle this."

Aisha pushes the chair back and stands. "You had the opportunity, and you failed."

Marvin grabs her arm as she walks by but quickly lets go. He still has a small, thin scar on the second knuckle of his right middle finger from when he'd pulled that stunt the second time they met. "Aisha. You're making this worse, you know that, right? They're not gonna disappear."

"People disappear all the time, Marvin. You know that."

Then she's gone, leaving Marvin all alone in the room with a dilemma. Whatever his choice, Aisha will make sure it's too late when he makes it.

~*~

 _"Watch, Aisha." Her father's fingers dig into her jaw, and he turns her head. "Do not flinch from your enemies, even as they die by your hand."_

Aisha is seven when she first watches a man die. She is twelve when she takes her first life and realizes that it is a very different experience.

Now, though, Bryan Esterman is no more than a line, a starting point — one of many. He doesn't talk. At first.

In the end, he is begging, but even that doesn't last. When he falls silent, Aisha has another name and an ear wrapped in his linen handkerchief, the embroidered edge rough against her fingertips as she wipes her hands clean.

~*~

Clay catches her in Bogotá, throws her against the wall of her hotel room and makes her see stars. She reciprocates with a well-aimed punch to his jaw, the skin over her knuckles splitting from the impact. She could have gone for his throat, but she's not ready to kill him. Yet. Even if Max is dead.

Clay rubs his jaw, watching her, and licks the spot of blood off his split lip. Aisha smiles, all teeth, as she stretches her neck side to side until she can hear the bones in her spine pop.

"So," Clay says, flexing his fingers, getting himself loose, "this is how we're playing it?"

"Is there any other way?" Then she drops to the ground and sweeps him.

It ends in a stalemate — Aisha's ribs are aching from a few sharp jabs and her back is sore from getting slammed into the wall twice, but Clay is hurting just as bad. She can feel it in the tremor of his muscles as she slides her hands up his shirt. His buttons pop — one, two, three, four, five. She takes his mouth in the same way, fierce and demanding, sucking hard on his bottom lip, running her tongue across the split and lapping up the metallic taste of his blood. The tang is unmistakable.

Clay doesn't talk until they're sprawled on the bed — him on his back and Aisha on her side, her leg draped over his, her head on his shoulder.

"Jensen's got a lead," he says as she's running her fingers across his chest, counting the rise and fall of each heavy breath he takes, his skin slick with sweat.

Aisha taps Clay's nipple when he falls silent. "Are you going to share or are we going to play twenty questions?"

Clay grabs her hand, turns his head and looks at her. He's searching her face, but there's nothing there to find. "Are _you_ gonna share?"

"Share what?"

"You took off. It's been three weeks. I'm sure you found something, a lead of your own, a name. Is it a new Max? Someone else?"

Aisha slides out of bed and grabs her shirt off the lamp shade.

"Wait." Clay sits up and closes a hand around her hip, tugging her back to the bed. "We're a team—"

Aisha brushes away his hand and grabs her jeans. "I'm not a Loser. The name, Clay."

Clay growns. "Is he gonna end up like Esterman? That was—" He shakes his head, averts his eyes, and then looks at her again. "Was that necessary?"

"How's Jolene and Jamaar?" Aisha asks as she pulls on her jeans.

Not well, Clay's face says, eyes sliding away from her. Or maybe stable. He looks at her again, his mouth shaped into a thin, more disapproving frown. He keeps searching her face, taking furtive glances at her hands and around the room. "They found—"

"I know what they found," she interrupts. "And what they didn't." She checks the clip on her Beretta, thumbs on the safety, and tucks it behind her pants. "What did Jensen find?"

"Come back with me, and he'll tell you."

Aisha shakes her head. "I just need a name."

"There's a ton of 'em."

A smile flickers across her face. "I have a lot of enemies."

~*~

She doesn't go with Clay. She leaves him in the hotel in Bogotá and takes a plane to Côte d'Azur, where she loses Cougar with a simple bait and switch. Losing Jensen is easier. She lets him chase the electronic trail to Khamis Mushayt while she goes to Greece, doubles back, and takes a plane to Pittsburgh. She hides her face behind large sunglasses and waltzes through the automatic doors. A taxi and a stolen car later, and she's breaking into Jensen's apartment. Surprisingly, he doesn't have it rigged for security.

"Holy—" Jensen snaps, flinching hard when he steps out of the bathroom and finds her at his computer. He clutches the towel at his waist and looks at the front door with a frown and a shake of his head.

"Open this up," she says, tapping the screen. "Give me the name."

Jensen aims his thumb to the closet. "Can I get dressed first?"

Aisha holds up the Glock that she found in the closet, lets it dangle on her finger, and smiles. "Of course. Then that name, Jensen. I'm short on time."

"Right. Yeah." He turns with a muttered, "Why me?" and another shake of his head. He keeps the door to his room open and hides behind the closet door to get dressed. "So this is a solo mission, huh? You're going lone wolf on this one?" He peeks around the closet door, and Aisha stares until he ducks his head and hides again with a simple, "Okay. Guess so. I don't have much, you know."

"I don't need much. You have five seconds, Jensen."

Jensen stares at her, eyes wide. "You're not going to shoot me again, are you? Because I thought we'd moved past that. I thought we were kind of cool by now."

Aisha's smile grows. "I'll shoot you in the arm again. It'll be clean."

"Yeah." Jensen shakes his head and shuts the closet door. "That's, uh, really not much better." He reaches the chair. "I need my seat."

"How long before Clay gets here?" Aisha asks as she stands, relinquishing the chair.

"Clay? What makes you—"

"How long?"

Jensen rubs the back of his neck. "About—"

"Damn it, Aisha," Clay says as he bursts through the door, Pooch on his heels. Which means Cougar is posted outside somewhere. With bullets or tranqs, that's the question.

Aisha glances at Jensen, and he holds up his hands. "Had to," he says, and turns his attention to the monitor.

"You have a couple of options," Clay continues, but Pooch is the one who steps forward.

"What do you have? I have a right to know."

"No." She doesn't meet his eyes but instead meets Clay's. "All you have to do is stay out of my way."

Clay shakes his head. "That's not how we operate."

Aisha sighs and then presses the Glock to Jensen's temple. "Name."

Jensen freezes, eyes wide, but he doesn't move. "Holy shit, are you _joking_? What the _hell_ , Aisha?"

"Don't," Pooch warns, his own gun trained on her, his mouth thinned into determination.

 _"A man will change when he has something to fight for."_

Anyone will, Aisha wants to tell her father. A purpose is dangerous. She's seen it kill hundreds. She's watched it destroy thousands more. Like her father. The thought immediately draws her attention back to Clay, and whatever he sees, he concedes with a nod.

"Give her the name, Jensen."

"Yeah, when she stops pointing the gun at my _head_ ," Jensen snaps. "I'm getting you a stress ball for Christmas, Aisha."

"I don't celebrate," she says, and nudges his head with the barrel of the gun.

"Then for your birthday. Jesus." Jensen's fingers move quickly on the keyboard. It doesn't take him long to deliver. "Here, okay? Here." He's about to push his chair away, but Aisha grips the back of it and shoves Jensen against the computer desk as she glances at the screen. Jason Tremmel.

She drops a kiss to Jensen's temple with a simple, "Thank you," and then pushes his head down and shoots the screen.

Cougar, apparently, isn't on the roof at all. He catches her between apartment buildings, pressing a gun to her temple in a fitting coup.

"This is not how we do things," he says, voice low, hat tipped lower.

"No," she agrees, holding her hands up, "but that's why I'm doing this." She turns her head and meets his eyes, her vision skewed by the long, dark line of the barrel. "Clay is still alive up there." The words hang heavy, make Aisha's heart beat harder. Cougar doesn't falter, but he does lower his gun. She notices the receiver in his ear.

"You should let us help you."

"I am."

They share a smile, secret and shaded. Then Aisha walks away. She cuts the tires of Cougar's truck and Pooch's jeep, things that are easy to replace, things she'll pay for later.

~*~

Marvin's codes have changed; Aisha's methods have not, but perhaps, in a way, she has. She leaves two of the guards alive, slumped against the wall with no more than a possible concussion and walks out with what she needs — mainly weapons but more importantly, information.

She takes a plane home. It's fitting but not divine.

~*~

They're waiting for her in the terminal. The security guard has a tic in his left jaw when he looks at her passport and then looks at her and then back at her passport.

"Ma'am," a well-dressed man with an American accent says, appearing behind her, his black-suit well-pressed and as crisp as the coil of the receiver extending from his ear. "Will you please follow us?"

Aisha looks to her left and sees another man approach, another American with a sharp black suit and receiver and a gun hidden beneath all those layers. "What's this about?" she asks, taking her passport back and sliding it into her bag.

"Please just follow us."

Aisha nods, and they flank her, leading her down a series of halls with unmarked doors, and she's waiting for the bullet, for the black bag over her head, but it seems Jason Tremmel has plans. Or schemes much larger than an easy death. But it's no longer strange for her to have strangers as enemies. She survived a war.

 _"They kill us but do not know us," she remembers her father saying._

She is still surviving that war.

It _is_ a surprise when these well-dressed men lead Aisha to the last door, open it, and she finds that she does know the man across the room. He gestures to the chair in front of him, revealing a glimpse of his expensive cuff links. Gold or gold-plated. Most likely gold. Thompson's vanity would demand it.

"It seems you've forgotten that you're supposed to be working for us," he says, folding his hands on the table. "Please, sit."

Aisha chooses to remain standing. "Jason Tremmel."

Thompson's eyes briefly narrow behind his thin-framed glasses. "Am I supposed to be familiar with that name?"

"Maybe you're familiar with an attack in Massachusetts. A park." Aisha glances at the two men standing beside her in identical poses — stiff-backed, arms loose at their sides. Thompson is not loose. "Several people were injured in the explosion."

He looks over her, eyes skittering to the right and left until his attention returns to her face. "I'm well aware. Homeland Security is investigating."

Aisha shakes her head and then meets his eyes. He blinks. "Where is he?"

"You're also under investigation, _Ms. al-Fadhil_." He says her name slowly, the words formed in a derisive sneer.

She responds with a smile and then strikes. The man to her right goes down gagging, hands clutched to his throat from the chop she delivered to his larynx, his face bright and red as she goes for his gun. She twists, dropping to the floor, aims while the other man is telling her, "Freeze or I'll shoot!"

Thompson is the only one yelling the right orders. "Stop her! Just fucking shoot her!"

But by then, it's too late. The other man goes down, his pressed slacks slick with blood and bits of bone when she shoots his kneecaps. She rolls to one knee, training the gun on Thompson, who raises his hands, eyes wide, lips parted.

"Aisha," he says, this time with the fear that he's struggling to choke back and make authoritative.

"Tell me where he is." She smashes the butt of the gun into the first man's temple when he tries to tackle her. She kicks him off, reaching with her left for the other agent's weapon. Thompson freezes, halfway out of his seat, hands raised once more when she trains the second gun on him. "Jason Tremmel."

"You're not going to get away with this. The cameras _alone_ , the footage that we have on you—"

Aisha's attention splits between the person walking through the door — potentially another agent, possibly several — and Thompson. Then she smiles, turns her attention back to Thompson, who freezes against the wall, staring at Clay.

"Erased," Clay says, quietly shutting the door behind him. "It looks like there was some kind of shortage in the wires." Aisha can see his grin out of the corners of her eyes, but then he leans against the wall, out of sight. "So I believe the lady asked you a question."

Aisha stands while Thompson sputters, his mouth wordlessly opening and closing, his wide eyes fixed on Clay, which is stupid when Aisha has the guns. She shoots the wall behind him, grazing his shoulder as a reminder that he should pay attention. Thompson grabs his arm with a sharp cry, a panted, "All right, all right!" He looks at Aisha, his expression twisted in pain, and swallows hard, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around his arm as if it's a major wound. She raises the gun, aims it between his eyes to let him know that the next one can be. "You're not going to get away with this, Aisha."

"You haven't stopped me yet." And she shoots him.

She hears the sharp hiss of Clay's inhale, but when she turns her head to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth pinched in a frown. "What the hell are you doing, Aisha?" he asks, as if he's not surprised.

"Getting answers."

~*~

Aisha leaves Clay and his team at the airport and finally loses them in the streets of Kandahar. They'll find her, of course; she still has the tracking device and fingers the smooth edges of it in her pocket.

~*~

Fahd plants one booted foot against the door and shuts it, standing in one smooth motion, his hand on his heart as he nods to her in greeting. "You've been busy," he says, the Dari whistling between his teeth.

He briefly makes eye contact, but he's the first to turn away. It's one more change. Aisha's learned to look into the eyes of men and women alike. She's watched her enemies die that way like her father taught her. "Better busy than idle," she says with a shrug, and walks across the room. "How is Sheik Ibn-Al-Walid?" Etiquette must still be followed.

"He is well. He also wonders when you'll return."

"Soon." Aisha shrugs and walks across the room. "Maybe."

"We've heard that Max is dead."

Aisha glances at Fahd over her shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and then turns to face him again. "He is."

They stare at each other without looking at each other, but she's the one to make the first move, to cross the room and cup his cheeks in her palms, tracing the hollows of his skin with the tips of her fingers. His mouth is still mangled; he still leans close as if to kiss her.

"I have to do this," she whispers, staring at the crooked bent of his nose.

"I am not here to stop you."

She closes her eyes, briefly, and then drops her hands. It is long enough and quiet enough for him to leave. When she opens her eyes, she smiles at the gift by the door.

 _"I have nothing for you," she says in a memory, and remembers Fahd's smile, the grip of his hands wrapped around hers, firm and strong._

 _"You have the blood of our enemies."_

With a smile, she drops the tracking device, smashes it with the heel of her boot, and then tosses it out the window. Once again, it's time to go.

~*~

Tremmel is at once easy and difficult to find. He is a man with the same ambitious, patronizing goals as Max, delusions that he's turned into reality and a list of conjured threats. "I'm fighting for America," he doesn't say, but Aisha can see the wild belief of it in his eyes, the _idea_ that he clings to with his pale, white hands just before he shoots her.

 _Did you ever see Jolene?_ Aisha doesn't ask as she rocks back on her heels; she knows that Jason didn't see her either and still thinks there's a way and only one. There isn't. Aisha switches the Beretta to her left hand and puts a bullet in his chest. She walks over to him and stops with her boot on his throat. There's nothing to say, so she aims, pulls, and watches his blood bloom bright on the expensive carpet.

The bottom line is to make this as costly as possible for them.

When the building blows, Aisha watches from afar, her blood dripping in the sand, and knows that even this won't be enough.

~*~

Aisha steps into the room, pausing in the doorway when everyone's eyes turn to her. Jolene is the only one wearing a smile, her eyes warm with it as she says, "Aisha."

"You're, uh." Jensen looks at Clay and then back at her. "Back. Obviously."

Cougar tips his hat and returns his attention to the card game, flicking a card onto the pile while Clay and Pooch share a brief look.

"So it looks like I'm out," Jensen continues, shaking his head as Pooch finishes laying down the last house.

"Oh, honey." Jolene pats Jensen's hand. "You have other skills." Then she gathers the cards and flicks a look at Aisha, vulnerable and open, part question, part relief. Jensen is staring at Aisha, too, as he rolls the chair back, reaching for the laptop bag propped against the wall. "Do you want to play?" Jolene holds up the deck, her hands trembling.

Clay doesn't avoid Aisha's eyes, but his mouth thins into a small, tight frown, eyes dark with questions that he won't voice here, that he may never voice. It doesn't concern Aisha either way.

"What are you playing?" she asks.

Jolene smiles again, her expression lighting up as she drops her hand. "Spades."

"Cougar and Pooch cheat," Jensen says, eyes narrowed at them both, but Pooch is busy cooing to Jamaar and Cougar grins — either in on the joke or in admission.

"Or you just suck at the game," Pooch laughs.

In admission, because Cougar's grin broadens, and he nods at Pooch in silent agreement.

"Be my partner?" Jolene asks.

Aisha takes another step forward and looks at each member of the team — Jensen with his laptop, Clay standing by the window, watching over them all, Cougar with his sly glance her way, Pooch who's just waiting, stroking his wife's knee and bouncing Jamaar on his lap.

Jolene still has a soft smile and shifts, dragging herself higher up the bed. "Come on. Let's show these boys how it's done."

Aisha enters the room, sits at the end of the bed and nods with a smile of her own.

"Good. Can you shuffle?" Jolene motions with the deck. "My hands—" She stops, something in her breath catching as she lowers her eyes to her lap, where her hands still shake.

Aisha covers Jolene's hand, glides her fingers against Jolene's wrist and palm as she takes the deck. Nothing more needs to be said. But their eyes meet and Jolene's mouth creases into another smile. Aisha also has a gift, but she leaves it wrapped in a linen handkerchief by the door.


End file.
